A couple days ago Alex sent me the poem “The Return” by Bruce Bond, and several lines resonated with me. In particular:
Long ago tomorrow was everything to me.
I loved it the way a small room
loves an only window,
the farthest reaches, the fever
of daylight as it rises and falls.
I loved the future the way a wick
loves the fire that eats it.
Elegant and eloquent.
And as Alex said in our subsequent discussion, right now everything feels like tomorrow. Perhaps that would have been a better way to explain what I was trying to say yesterday about my frustrations. Tomorrow I will finish my manuscript. Tomorrow I will get an agent. Tomorrow I will be published.
It’s beautiful to always have something to look forward to (and work toward) but then again, it’s hard to always wait.
Another great line, although not relevant to my thoughts above:
Every morning the sun rose
on the jungle of who we thought we were,
what we lost, what we had become.
Even those who returned never returned.